Chelsea O'Byrne
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
It had been a Thanksgiving like so many others through the years. The table was adorned with paper-turkey decorations the kids had made in grade school, Grandpa told bad jokes and we all overdid it on the pumpkin pie.
What made this year’s gathering different, though, was that my kids were home for their first family gathering since starting university in September. As I cleared the table, listening to their excited chatter about dorm life, new friends and stimulating ideas, I felt a pull of sadness. In a few days, they’d be off again.
I’m a mom of twins, and their departure from my day-to-day has hurled me abruptly from active parent to empty nester in an emotional one-two punch. When they first left for university, the house became oddly quiet for the first time in almost 18 years. When friends ask me how I am adjusting, I joke that the house has never been neater and I always know where my car is.
The truth is, I’ve been thrown off balance a bit. I’d been dreading their departure for college. It lurked in my mind through the years, a tiny black dot that grew larger as they got older, more independent and more prepared to start the next phase.
Raising twins, particularly in the intense early years, was such a fog of doing everything that needed doing, two times around, that I didn’t think much about that day they’d leave to be on their own. I was too busy.
From the moment we brought my son and daughter home from the hospital, placing their tiny, swaddled forms side by side in a single crib, my husband and I muddled through the messy, exhausting and exhilarating terrain of taking care of two babies at once.
I nursed them, somehow. We spent a small fortune on diapers and changed them about 20 times each day. We tended to their hurts, both physical and emotional. We hosted two birthday parties in a row.
We shared the daunting workload evenly. There was no choice, as madness would have quickly set in.
On occasions when my husband was away, when child care wasn’t available and I was solo, I somehow summoned the logistical prowess of an army general. One of my prouder accomplishments was getting their double stroller, my diaper bag stuffed with supplies, then one, then the second baby down the stairs to the lobby of our elevator-less apartment and out the door to an appointment. After that, I felt I could do anything.
Fast forward to this major life transition. It’s getting easier, but I don’t always feel as emboldened as I did during that organizational triumph.
When we learned they’d been accepted, we hugged them and congratulated them. We didn’t let them see our eyes glass up a bit. (We also wondered how we’d get each to a different school on the same day, but that was a mere detail.)
We basked in the pride of seeing them cross the stage at their high-school graduation, where the principal gave them special notice for being one of a few sets of twins at their school.
The excitement and bustle around all the Grade 12 milestones distracted from the day they’d depart. And then it came. They launched. It’s what they’re supposed to do. It’s an exciting phase for them.
For me, it’s a time for contemplation.
Did I equip them with all the tools they need to succeed? Could my parenting have been better? Of course. What kind of people have just set off into the world? What kind of people will they become?
Then there’s my identity as a mother. The role is, by necessity, undergoing a redefinition. I reflect on the milestones they reached to make a mom proud: Crawling, walking and learning to ride a bicycle. Getting braces (two sets at the same time!). Getting a driver’s licence. Landing their first part-time jobs, graduating from high school and, of course, landing those university acceptances.
I revisit all the taxing moments, too: the emergency department visits, the homework battles, the unanticipated dramas presented by hormonal teenagers and the continuing, futile attempts to get them off their cellphones. The mountain of backpacks, hoodies and footwear left at the front door for all to trip over.
Those busy times have ended as I build a different relationship with them as they mature into young adults. I am their mom from a distance, physically and emotionally. I must let them make their own mistakes and achieve their own successes.
A few days before their departure, I went into each child’s room, both doors still bearing the adolescent warning: “Knock before entering.” My son’s was its usually messy state, with a litter of balled-up socks surrounding the laundry basket. My daughter’s room was a chaotic tableau of books, clothes and old school projects. On her pink chair under a pile of unfolded clothes was the faded cloth doll we’d imaginatively named Dolly.
Before they left, I would have sighed in annoyance. Now I feel nostalgic. I want more dirty socks on the floor. I want to hug a little girl and her Dolly.
Then I tell myself sternly, they’re doing exactly what they’re supposed to do. They’re forging their interests, character and identities more strongly than ever.
When my son was home recently, he asked to borrow the car. We did the usual negotiating over when he’d be home. I went to bed.
I woke up at 4.30 a.m. with a fright. Was my baby home? Was he safe?
I rushed upstairs to his room and there he was, sleeping soundly. I checked in on my daughter in her room. All was right. They’re both fine, and flourishing. I’m still a mom, even as the arc of life continues.
Ann Gibbon lives in in Vancouver.